


don’t fail me now

by billspilledquill



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Bonding through discussions on death and immortality, Gen, M/M, Things to do with your best friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 06:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14372976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: “I don’t dislike him,” he said when Saint-Just’s hand was on his shoulder, barely brushing when it slipped away, featherlike, “but Fouché’s wrong, I don’t reign on anything else other than republican ideals.”





	don’t fail me now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindasusany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindasusany/gifts).



“I don’t dislike him,” he said when Saint-Just’s hand was on his shoulder, barely brushing when it slipped away, featherlike, “but Fouché’s wrong, I don’t reign on anything else other than republican ideals.”

Saint-Just was holding himself straight, standing beside the door. A proud figure, he thought, Saint-Just would held his head high even after the sun had set.

“I rejoice it,” he said, “I believe your prints, Robespierre. You are a man of your words, and there’s no doubt that men will always levy you with gold or cheap sliver.”

“I understand,” he answered, eyes on the calendar, “is it soon vendémiaire? Haven’t seen it coming.” He picked up his quill, some ink spilling on his fingers. He saw Saint-Just’s eyes tracing his movements, lashes fluttering under the intruding light.

“It is,” Saint-Just closed his eyes, shadowing the sun, “les Girondins commencent à être un problème, Robespierre. They are proposing legislations that go in counter of the revolutionary will.”

He looked at him. A silent plea. Saint-Just was fixing on the green papered wall, and Robespierre was confused whether he was looking at his portrait or the republican calendar.

“I haven’t been an imposing presence, I hope,” he said through the cold air, loud and clear. Saint-Just had always been one, no matter he knew it or not, “I wish to bide you goodbye–“

“— _The National Convention must not seek to multiply the culprits, it is to the faction leaders that it has to be committed to - the punishment of the leaders will scare the traitors and save the patrie,_ ” he read from his scribbled papers, looking through his tinted glasses, “what do you think? Is the word of _culprits_ not too odd? Should I refer them with another term that you deem right?”

“No,” Saint-Just said, halted on his steps toward the door, “I think it only legitimate concern to refer them as their true disposition.”

“Thank you, citoyen,” he nodded, “would you mind staying a bit more? The season is changing and it is getting colder by the minutes,” he hesitated, noticing how much this revealed, “of course, this is only a friend’s request. Élénore believes that they are still bread and recently brewed coffee left.”

Saint-Just’s eyes flickered, “I don’t desire to disturb your routine—“

“A friend’s company is nothing less than a routine that one desperately wishes, there’s no trouble,” he said. His quill moving forward, reaching for another paper. Thinking about a _décret d’accusation_. The year was still young, the Republic was not even the youngest in the room. Les enfants de la patrie. 

Saint-Just took his hat off, smiling a little, “A friend’s antic disposition, then.”

To say he wished company was absurd, but then again, Saint-Just never complained about that neither.

“La vendémiaire, brumaire, frimaire,” he began, shifted his weight on the wooden chair, a sound of wood against wood ensued, “how terribly new all this is.”

“So is you,” he said, writing, “so is me. Half of the Convention used to misspell my name.”

“New things tend to disappear over night,” Saint-Just argued. No one knew what the argument was, anyway, “les Girondins are going to face the same fate.”

“They are traitors of the Revolution,” he said, “there are many who are in good faith, but who have been misled by the most hypocritical faction of which history would ever have furnished the example. By what means that history is not fiction, Saint-Just?”

“The most surreal things in fiction are history,” he answered, knitting his brows, “let them off with republican events and they would built you a church of national faith. This idea is often held because history lies more than books.”

What will become of the Republic, he thought, when the papers he were using would become rusty and yellowed with gray light? What would become of Saint-Just’s eyes, when they would shine only beneath the dusts of painters’ hands?

 _I don’t mind dying for the revolution,_ was what he did not say, _but the gods are thirsty and I am afraid, afraid, afraid. Afraid of your blood is the only thing that can be counted as progess, afraid, afraid, afraid._

“You are thinking too much, Saint-Just.”

“I digress much of the subject in hand, I admit,” he said, “but my mind never really thinks of anything at all when it comes to death, Robespierre.”

“You don’t?”

“If you think something in every minute of your waking day, there’s no reason to be worried anymore. I felt like I have been through the blade a thousand time, before they break my neck, and every time, I will be saying— something about _mépriser cette poussière qui me compose et qui te parle—_ _just_  before hitting the ground, the floor,” he shurgged a little, “it all depends.”

“You say it to me?”

“I do,” he said, “your eyes would follow my steps to the hanging stop every time.”

He frowned, stopped on his working, “Death by hanging is now impossible within the country, as far as I know, citoyen Saint-Just.”

He nodded, folded his hands, “I am aware just as you are. I told you, fictional settings are much plausible in a time of change. Who would have thought that torture would be taken out of public executions? The blood of men pours only because it doesn’t hurt.”

“What were you charged of? What could you possibly do that make you think that you deserve such a horrid death?”

Robespierre completely stopped his quill from moving, making scratches of ink on his waistcoat. Saint-Just smiled too much like a tragic hero, only because that Rome did not keep their gods in the same shrine.

“Ever heard of Icarus?” He said, taking Robespierre’s papers and examining it with great care. He almost seem to forget that he should finish the sentence, “well, I’m certainly not his father, I will tell you that.”

“ _I say my opinion in the presence of the people,_ ” Saint-Just recited, musing, “ _say it frankly, and I take it as the judge of my intentions. Know, citizens, that you will only be truly defended by those who will have the courage to speak the truth, even when the circumstances would seem to order their silence._ ”

Saint-Just paused from Robespierre’s papers, his soft eyes glancing at something impossible to discern in its entirety. He chuckled lightly, “There should be an applause here, Robespierre.” He put a finger on the freshly written words, young and deliberate. “There _will_ be an applause here, a lively applause.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> And he did. This is a extract from the speech he did on the subject of the Girondins. Apparently he got such a loud applause that he had to pause before continuing.


End file.
